Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star

by Nobody, Joe

  He had slept in the Kenworth’s bunk until the truck refused to start from lack of fuel. Without air conditioning, the New Mexico heat made those accommodations untenable. His next rack had been inside the restaurant, joining the majority who had taken to sleeping on the floors, booths and even the countertop.

  Again, without AC, the interior of the building was stifling. The body odor and stench of spoiled food didn’t help matters, but it was shelter. The days were incredibly hot, the nights bone chilling cold. They were down to drinking the melted freezer ice, the last of bulk dry goods being consumed quickly.

  And then one morning everything changed.

  He would never know if it were a toppled candle, careless cigarette, or a stray ember from the grill. All that Cole could remember was waking up and not being able to breathe. He’d been dreaming a bear was sitting on his chest, and that ended up being close to reality.

  The diner was completely filled with smoke, the acidic air burning eyes, skin, and lungs. He was confused, unable to remember exactly where the door was. In his mad scramble to get out of the ash-filled coffin, he tripped over another driver, and that saved his life.

  Just as every school-aged child learns, heat rises. He found himself able to inhale on the floor, the visibility down low much improved.

  He clambered for the door, scooting across the linoleum tile on his belly like a snake after a rat. When he finally managed the parking lot, he found himself alone. There were 50 people still inside the sizzling structure.

  Cole located a shovel and rushed to the front of the building. Flames were now visible along the roofline, the fire spreading quickly. He swung the metal head against the large glass panes of the main windows, shards exploding inward. Immediately, the new openings filled with columns of black smoke tempered with soot.

  Again and again, he shattered window glass, hoping the noise would wake some, praying the rush of air would clear the way for others. He knew the oxygen would fuel the flames, but if the people inside could catch a chest full of fresh air, they might make it out.

  A few more people managed to stumble through the door, coughing and spitting the foulness from their lungs. Some had made it, but not many.

  Taking a few deep breaths, Cole inhaled a final time and rushed back inside. A few feet past the threshold, he fell to his knees and screamed, “Come toward me. The door is at the sound of my voice! Come to me!”

  He could see a few pairs of staggering legs, heard someone crying and another coughing violently. He reached out and pulled the nearest person down. “Crawl out! That way!” he instructed.

  The smoke was getting worse, the swirling layer of gray and black threatening to occupy the crawl space. Cole found an arm and tugged, pulling the owner down low and motivating them to move out.

  The next person he would grab was a woman, but she had already succumbed to the smoke. One deep breath, and Cole lifted her unresponsive body onto his shoulder and retraced his steps to the door. He bumped into two more men now rushing back in to help others. Making it outside into the cool, fresh air, he set his victim down and listened for her to inhale. Within a minute, she was sputtering and coughing – but alive.

  Only half of them survived the fire, the population of the truck stop reduced to 24 lost and shattered souls standing back and watching their only shelter and source of food go up in smoke.

  For hours, they could do nothing but gawk. Embers ignited many of the nearby vehicles, including the trailer that now housed the trapped bird. The fire had burned for two days, its eerie glow deepening the darkening shadows under the onlookers’ eyes.

  For the next few days, everyone was in a daze. Exhaustion was one of the primary reasons, as sleeping in one’s vehicle wasn’t an option. Oven hot by day and icebox cold at night, the southwestern desert didn’t lend itself to enclosed metal structures. Some of the residents were creative, building sunshades and erecting enclosures from scavenged materials in an attempt to avoid the elements, but they didn’t help much.

  It was purely by accident that one of the drivers discovered the comforts provided by the structure of the overpass. Anything consumable was gone, hunger gnawing at every stomach. The old trucker had been sitting in his cab when he noticed two rabbits nibbling at the weeds now dominating the exit ramps. Sensing a meal, his journey took him under the bridge where the air temperature was several degrees cooler. He’d moved in permanently by the end of the day.

  One by one, the entire community had joined him, building barricades to keep out the blowing sands and searing sun, relocating anything salvageable to the ever-expanding concrete condominiums.

  Cole identified the malfunctioning nail, the head rusted off and providing no grip. He couldn’t remember where he’d left the other nails.

  The condos, as everyone called them, had gradually become quite the complex structure. Foraging construction materials wherever they could be found, the residents of the overpass had spent the seemingly never-ending days trying to improve their existence. The result was an architectural wonder.

  One of the many benefits to living under a bridge was temperature control. The overhead deck provided shade and absorbed heat during the scorching days. That heat radiated through the concrete structure to provide some warmth during the cold nights. It was probably an accident of design, but the occasional desert breeze seemed to channel under the bridge as well. Anything beat living in a car or out in the open under a lean-to. Both alternatives had been tried and had been determined to offer substandard accommodations.

  But the best feature of all was defense, and the community had needed it.

  He would never understand it. They had nothing, yet the raiders came. The people of the overpass were starving and possessed nothing of value, but the thieves, looters and thugs harassed them anyway.

  Cole shook his head, glancing up at a series of bullet holes in a nearby wall. He couldn’t remember which attack that had been, but it didn’t matter.

  They had welcomed the first carload of men, the rare sound of a running engine drawing everyone’s attention. Four of them had exited the luxury sedan, all brandishing rifles and acting like bad-asses. Cole and the others had waved and greeted with friendly smiles, anxious for any news from the outside world.

  When it became clear to the visitors that the people of the overpass were a docile group, the encroachers had taken to searching the area. They found nothing of interest but the youngest waitress. She didn’t resist going with them at first, thoughts of fleeing the overpass filling her mind. Cole tried to warn her – an effort that earned him a rifle butt in the stomach. When she reconsidered her escape plan, they had dragged her, kicking and screaming into the car and driven off.

  After that first incident, the residents realized security was important and inventoried their resources. A few of the truckers carried pistols in their cabs. Another man had a 30-06 hunting rifle, purchased along with two boxes of shells from a Fort Worth pawnshop for his brother-in-law.

  The raids were random and unpredictable. Two men on dirt bikes traveling through the desert. Another bunch driving a class-A motorhome down I-40.

  Not every encounter involved conflict. A family from the Mid-west, returning from an extended camping trip in the mountains north of Santa Fe, had joined the community. They had brought a book describing assorted uses of local plants and wildlife - a godsend for the community. Those folks had easily assimilated into the fledgling municipality. Another morning, Cole woke to find three horsemen sitting on their mounts right outside his condo. Fortunately, they had only been looking for water.

  It quickly became obvious that surprise was the worst enemy to their collective survival. They had set about trying to devise traps and warning devices. It had worked, probably saving a few lives in the process.

  Cole glanced around, trying to remember where he’d left the nails. He had spent an entire afternoon with a hammer, pounding out the connectors from the charred timbers of the truck stop. A small outbuilding had su
rvived the fire. It had been quickly disassembled for condo raw materials.

  The nails were over by one of the traps, he remembered. The last storm had washed out part of the intersecting state highway. They had covered the newly created ditch with a tarp, driving the nails into the pavement to hold the mat’s cover in place. They had covered the canvas with a thin layer of sand, making it appear as a drift – a sight now common given the absence of road crews. He made a mental note to retrieve the connectors and fix the thumping tin wall.

  “Those were optimistic times,” he mumbled, thinking about building the traps. “We had purpose and energy. We cared about survival then. Now, I’m not so sure I give a shit.”

  The semi-trailers had been scavenged next. Most of the truckers carried tool kits inside of the rigs, so there wasn’t a shortage of equipment. Trailer panels had been disassembled, tarps and rope utilized for snares and shelter. We are like the buzzards, Cole’s thoughts repeating. We scavenge the dead.

  Seats were removed from cars, some of the creative residents configuring quite comfortable living and sleeping spaces. The waitresses even had curtains over a small opening in their condo. A window, they called it. He thought it still looked like a hole.

  Most of the drivers had bunks in their cabs, the cushions soon relocated to overpass cubbyholes. Spare sheets and pillows became contentious bartering items those first few months.

  Firewood for cooking and warmth hadn’t been an issue at first. The remnants of the truck stop had provided an ample supply. But that eventually ran out, leading to foraging excursions in the surrounding desert. Dead cactus did burn, but it took armloads to keep a fire going overnight. They didn’t have any choice. When the first residents had died, they’d made markers for the graves. Firewood became a higher priority, so the burial yard was now marked with small piles of desert stones. There were too many monuments.

  The population of the truck stop had been just over 60 people when Cole had pulled in that first night. They had lost 20 to fire, another 6 to sickness and infection. Four had taken the walk to nowhere. Seven had been lost to raiders. Two more had just decided life was no longer worth living.

  The buzzard fussed again, almost as if it were aware of its fate. Cole returned his attention to the task at hand, moving toward the trap and the grisly job ahead.

  Texas – New Mexico border

  July 23

  The two-lane highway was heading mostly north, occasionally bending to the west. The New Mexico desert was practically void of vegetation here, only the occasional clump of growth appearing in the pickup’s headlights.

  The GPS indicated they were getting close to I-40, the thick red line of the major artery slowly scrolling down the small screen in the dash. When they were ten miles out, Bishop let off the gas and coasted to a stop.

  The sun would be rising in a few hours, and he was beat. Terri’s rhythmical breathing and tilted neck indicated she had succumbed to exhaustion a few hours ago. Hunter was out as well.

  Bishop was tired, hungry, stiff, and sick of driving. He’d kept their speed below 35, conserving precious fuel and giving him every chance of spotting an ambush, highwayman, or other ne’er-do-well. It was also boring as hell, especially when driving through scenery that failed to inspire.

  He’d been looking for a lane, side road, or other location to turn off the pavement, but nothing had presented itself for the last hour. Not that there was any traffic or civilization to be worried about. Still, he couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable in such an open space.

  A quick check of the truck and camper uncovered no concerns. The tires appeared to be wearing evenly, and the hitch was secure. Addressing his rumbling stomach became the next order of business.

  He didn’t want to set up the camper just yet. The noise and movement would disturb Terri, and the young mother needed her rest. Besides, he wanted some place to hide their campsite, and so far, the surrounding territory wasn’t cooperating.

  The food bins inside the pickup’s shell had been divided into two categories – perishable and not. Letting food spoil would be inexcusable, so the order in which they consumed the fare was pragmatic and had little to do with appetite or the food pyramid.

  Pulling out a plastic bin, he spotted a small bag of apples, several freshly dug potatoes, and a plastic container of green beans, no doubt grown in one of the many gardens that now occupied every open parcel of ground around Alpha. The earthy smell of the small red tubers made his mouth water.

  His pack contained a German Infantry stove, a small metallic device that when folded was about the size of a deck of cards. Designed for use in the field, the unit took little space and was so simple it rarely malfunctioned. He would have some fried potatoes!

  A jug of water allowed a sparing rinse and scrub, his fighting knife making quick, clean slices through the skins. He decided to mix in the beans. A feast!

  He used the large pan from his mess kit, mixing the potatoes and beans together. They had learned a hard lesson about salt, packing several pounds for the trip. He quickly seasoned the dish with a pinch of the sprinkles from a large plastic bag of the granular mineral. Someone, somewhere in Alpha, had discovered a cache of small pepper packets that had once been passed out in fast food restaurants. Terri had bartered for a few handfuls to spice what were often bland creations.

  Pausing to yearn for fresh onions or a slice of bacon, he shrugged and ignited a small cube of chemical fuel under the stove. You can’t have everything, he mused. We should be thankful for this.

  It took three fuel packets to heat the bean-juice to a boil and soften the potatoes to his liking. He used a fourth to heat coffee water while he arranged his apple slices and again salted the main course.

  Using the tailgate as his dining table, Bishop savored the first forkful of the hot dish. A door opened, signaling Terri was awake and saving him a decision on whether or not to bother her. “Are you cooking something?” she asked, meandering to the back of the truck while rubbing sleepy eyes.

  “Welcome to Bishop’s Desert Grill,” he greeted. “Beans and taters are the special of the day, madam.”

  They shared the fork, each taking turns eating directly from the pan. Separate plates and utensils meant more dirty dishes and less available water. They giggled, both trying to eat the other’s bites, a few of the contests ending in a playful nudge, others in a kiss.

  They finished eating, each taking pulls from Bishop’s Camelbak to wash down the meal. Terri couldn’t sample his coffee due to the caffeine and the pass-through to Hunter. Bishop carried the pan a few steps into the desert and used sand to clean the surfaces, following up with a conservative rinse and rub from the jug.

  The couple relaxed a moment to digest their meal, sitting on the tailgate, holding each other, and gazing at the stars. Terri squeezed a little closer to her mate, nuzzling Bishop while he tried to locate the Big Dipper. “Do you really think we’ll find a good home?” Terri ventured, her mommy-mind unable to dismiss the topic.

  “There has to be some place that isn’t complete chaos out there. Even if we’re isolated, as long as we are safe and have plenty to eat, I’m cool.”

  Terri considered her husband’s statement for a bit before responding. “That works for a while, but eventually we are going to need other people. I don’t think I’m cut out to be a mountain woman, married to a mountain man with a life that borders on antisocial.”

  Bishop nodded, “I doubt there’s another Alpha out there. Remember the last time the Colonel was in town? He basically told us as much. Will we find another Meraton? Probably not, given the amount of fuel we have left. I think our best bet is to stay away for a while and let Nick work to clear my name. Let things settle down. My greatest hope is that we can return to West Texas one day soon.”

  “You’re right,” Terri sighed. “I just want the best for Hunter. I want him to go to school and have friends – a normal childhood. My mind is conflicted by different priorities these days.”

 
“I’m only going to drive until we have used half our fuel. I want to save the other half to get home. We’ll cross that bridge when…,” Bishop paused, a pained look crossing his face. “We can go back, Terri. We can go back right now. I can fight the charges against me. In a way, I’d welcome the opportunity to face my accusers.”

  She shook her head, the reaction strong. “No. If it were a normal situation involving just you, an accuser and the search for justice, I wouldn’t have wanted to leave. But that’s not the case. There’s a war involved, a conflict that a lot of people are willing to sacrifice one man in order to avoid. There’s also the reconstruction of one country and the freedom of another region at play. Whoever set you up was powerful… very powerful, and they aren’t playing by the rules. We did the right thing. There’s no way you would have gotten a fair trial in any venue. Let the dust settle – the truth will come out.”

  Bishop wasn’t sure. “And if we get killed out here in the badlands, was justice served? What if Nick and Diana lose control of the Alliance? Is the price for all that we have built worth my freedom? Will Meraton be better off without Pete and the market? I would sacrifice my life for what we were creating back there. Hell, I almost did several times. Why is this any different?”

  Terri reached up and touched her husband’s cheek, admiration causing her heart to swell. “Your honor and willingness to sacrifice are a big part of why I love you. They are core definitions of a good man. But in this case, you can’t win, my love, and you’re being naïve if you think you can. You would be throwing your life away. Don’t you realize that? If you were convicted, even wrongly so, then the leadership of the Alliance would be considered polluted and corrupt. Everything we have accomplished would be questioned. If you were found innocent, then we’d still be viewed as tainted – only protecting our own. Whoever dreamed up this little false flag knew exactly what they were doing. The only way out is to let emotions die down… give it some time, and let the truth come out in a natural way.”